It only takes a text
Romancing distance and asynchronicity
Hong Kong.
Why not?
I got on a plane to Shanghai the next week because she asked. Not for her — she was also in Hong Kong— but for a one-off job I was otherwise too lethargic to take.
Seeing how Shanghai had transformed in the past half-decade didn’t excite. The extra cash for shoes wasn’t motivation. Thoughts of the authentic Shanghainese food I haven’t tasted in years didn’t make my mouth water.
I had casually told her. She had casually responded. I couldn’t shake the gentle nudge, sitting permanently in our message history, more persistent than the momentary one she would have made in person.
Shanghai.
I craved a rooftop patio. I wanted to gorge on skyscrapers in Pudong with their splashes of red, white, fuschia that spilled magenta hues into the lower, less flamboyant buildings. I wanted to savour the lounge beats and suggestive shades over the leather seats.
Mood. I was soaking it up, wrapping myself with it in place of her arms.
Live jazz would have been perfect, but it’s not her thing, so the Euro-mix at the 3 on the Bundt rooftop bar would do just fine. I sat inside, watching the HSBC tower across the Huangpu River flash its logo in English and Chinese. I read a book over tea and tapas.
She would have ordered a cocktail, and I would have taken a sip.
When the seats beside me filled and the throb of music became palpable, I walked outside to take photos of the view. I sent them to her.
I think you’d have liked this patio.
Then, I head out to wander the shuttered alleys behind the famous waterfront. I am trying to nip the budding feelings, but the gaps between the texts are ripe, soft soil for them to take root.
Shanghai.
So what do you want to eat?
I didn’t really want to. The endless options to ration into my stomach overwhelmed my appetite. With my imagination failing to conjure up a craving for anything specific, I told her whatever was close. I was quite contented with the cafe I’d found, satiated by the light of golden hour on the Victorian stone arches on the building across the grass courtyard.
Send me your address.
I gave a map screenshot, then a station name, then a random local dish. She kept asking until she had enough information to search. Then, she kept sending restaurant links through my hour-long trek to dinner. I was working up a craving and she was agonizing over hers.
Long after dark, I sat down at a local eatery to order a set of pork dumplings. I took a picture for her, so she could judge the quality for herself. She deemed them too oily. I was skeptical too, but changed my mind after my first bite. The crispy bottoms slightly charred with a savoury smokiness complimented the soft, fluffy skin and made it almost like a bun. The meat filling was a soft, rich patty. Paired with the home-made chilli paste to cut through the oil, one bun was a two-bite work of perfection.
What about the juice?
I hadn’t noticed. I picked up another one and bit more intentionally. Taking a closer look, I admired how the liquid lined the inner skin without affecting the outer bun.
I thought it was a close compromise for the meat buns she was now desperate for. It wouldn’t do. My dumplings, no matter how good, wouldn’t substitute the meat buns.
You should get them tomorrow.
It’s close to where you live.
It opens at 6.
Did she know I would the next morning?
Tokyo.
So are you getting cakes today or desserts?
I was at an electronics store in Shibuya — the place with the dog statue and the scramble crossing — when the message came. I was shopping. Shopping, despite not shopping there for the year I lived in Tokyo. But now, I was a visitor. The bags I collected in one hand carried the weight of my uncharacteristic consumerism. I could keep shopping…maybe…for food?
Or, I could drop trying to be a tourist and cross the street to one of my favourite coffee houses.
I could.
I should.
I would.
When I pushed open the ebony door, I headed straight to the counter facing the Masters, as they are called instead of baristas. I ordered the aged coffee I’d come for and sat back to wait. It would take 20 minutes.
The seats were filled this afternoon, as usual. A trail of smoke floated at the far end of the counter.
I took a photo for her then put the phone down. I wouldn’t get a message back. I shouldn’t be expecting one. I never knew how long the gaps would be — enough to keep things loose, but not so unstable as to collapse. And in those spaces, possibility grew despite my vain attempts to bury it.
My fingers curled over the power button, trying to reclaim this coffeehouse, my memories, my past, myself, the self that didn’t get tangled in such things.
The screen flashed.
She had just made afternoon coffee.
Tokyo.
Silence.
Emoji.
Silence.
Perhaps she’s busy. Perhaps bored. Perhaps I should just say something. Perhaps I’m sending too many photos of places I went? Did she need space? I asked, more to stop myself from pouring more into our chatroom, potentially smothering.
No, it’s not that.
She had responded during my dinner, so I only saw the message after savouring the food. In Tokyo, I was sure of my cravings, confident about what to do with my time. After dinner, I roamed the small neighbourhood streets, buoyed by solitude.
The Tokyo Tower was a looming beacon above the small shops. I inhaled the crisp night air greedily. I looked up at the night sky, a velvety blue-black. I revelled in the quietude so typical of this megacity.
This moment was mine. But the music was hers. And the old favourite restaurants I visited were as much for me as they were for her. What was she doing now? How does she manage to keep the distance and shut off, the way she lets her cellphone die?
Tokyo.
Just tired.
Her text came just after my friend told me she had missed the last train and wouldn’t be coming home. Our exchanges, spread across hours and cities, collapsed into the here and now — in bed — us — both.
She told me about a movie. But it flowed into books, and love, and mental health, and whatever else. When we circled back to movies at 3am, she fell asleep.
I collapsed back onto my pillow, wondering what hers was like.
Hong Kong.
We sit side by side. We exchange words, glances, laughs. We show each other things on our phones. Occasionally, her fingers brush mine and when they do, there is no spark — as if the electric dance was already spent on digital ink — fluttering into physical familiarity.
Beside her, my body aches.
I need to get on a plane again, to go anywhere, to take her anywhere with me. I will ache then, too. I will ache with the intimacy we have only with distance. She will be there in the meals, the unfamiliar squares and markets I visit, the old favourite haunts in some other part of the world. We’ll continue falling asleep, phone in hand, in place of our interwoven fingers.
